By the Green of the Spring

by John Masters

  One saw him and stumbled out, ‘Hey, spare a copper for a hardworking man … ex-service man wot done his bit at Mons … Wipers … Waterloo.’ The three men were round him now, fingering his blue tunic, so clean and bright and new. They smelled rank, of sweat and gin. ‘’Ow much ’ave you got on yer, mite?’ one cried. ‘Cough it up, or we’ll bash you!’

  Guy emptied his pockets, but there was nothing. One of the men grabbed his wrist and croaked, ‘Ah, look at this, mites … Gold, that is …’ He raised a big threatening fist – ‘Tike it off, mite, or …’ They were drunk, Guy knew; he could have taken them all on … but a strange frozen feeling gripped him; he was paralysed, by their situation, and its contrast to his own. Had the men really served over there? It didn’t matter. Was the woman another whore, fifteen or fifty, raddled and riddled with VD? It didn’t matter. The woman said, ‘No good telling the narks where we took the watch, guv, ’cos we won’t be there …we’re not anywhere, see, we’re everywhere …’

  ‘Who are you?’ Guy whispered.

  ‘The moles,’ one of the men said, pocketing the watch. ‘The people wot live underneath … Wot’s them fancy clothes you got on, never seen anything like that before? Look like a bleeding circus ringmaster, you do.’ He flicked Guy’s tie out of his tunic and pulled the end – ‘Anything in them ribbons? No, just bits of coloured cloth, that’s what they are. Run along now.’

  Guy turned and walked away, head bent. The unlit street lamps marched on in slow time beside him, like grenadiers at a funeral. The darkness paled, but no cocks crowed for he was still in the city, again crossing the river, a giant dome taking shape out of the sky ahead, above it a golden cross and ball, dawn, people, pale and haggard, appearing to take over the city from the moles of the night.

  It was full light. A City policeman, six foot four if he was an inch, with the carriage of a corporal of Guards, and the curved crest up the spine of his helmet, was standing in front of a long building, staring at him.

  ‘Where am I?’ Guy asked him.

  The constable stared, saluted, and said, ‘In front of the Bank of England, sir.’

  Guy sat back, listening, while his Uncle Tom talked with his partner, Arthur Gavilan, in the private office at the back of the salon on Maddox Street. Gavilan was saying, ‘Chanel’s trimming everything with fur … even satin evening dresses. It’ll put the prices up, but I think we’ll follow suit, in our next collection.’

  ‘She’s using the oddest furs, too,’ Tom said. ‘Monkey, I know, and heaven knows what else. The names are like Peruvienne or Jacquerette, which tells you nothing.’

  ‘It’s best not to enquire,’ Gavilan said. ‘Let’s just get the furs, and see what we can do with them … They’re showing very wide-brimmed hats, too, mostly with chiffon veils, but I don’t think that’s going the right way. We should go towards smaller hats, hats that won’t get blown off the head in a motor car. Talk to Jeanne about it.’ Tom nodded and Gavilan turned to Guy, handing over a swatch of material, ‘What do you make of that?’

  Guy felt the texture – ‘It’s silk, isn’t it?’

  Gavilan nodded, ‘Grosgrain, very heavy, holds a cut beautifully. We’re using it in sweaters. Tom’s done some very imaginative designs for them.’ He raised his voice – ‘Glyn! Are you still looking at those sweaters?’

  A female voice from the salon chirped, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bring them in.’

  ‘In a minute.’

  Gavilan turned back – ‘Last year the basic shape was the tonneau, but this year it’s a slimmer line. We’re trying to achieve it without losing the feminine shape. One way is to use belted tunics, which makes for a double-tiered skirt effect, but is oddly slimming – I don’t know why, but it is.’

  A short dark-haired woman in her forties marched in through the open door, followed by three immensely tall young women, with long faces made up dead white, except for glaring scarlet lips. Guy made to stand up but Gavilan waved him down saying, ‘Models, Guy … We’re going to show our dresses on these girls, and three others. They’re wearing some of Tom’s sweater designs now.’

  The girls pirouetted slowly, arms raised, then pranced back and forth. Guy thought, they’re skeletal, bony faces, look like nothing on earth … it was much more fun, in his dream, with the Duchess, Marian and Florinda. They looked like women.

  One girl winked as she passed close in front of him and said, ‘I’m Fifi’; the second said, ‘I’m George, and I think you’re the cat’s pyjamas’; the third, finishing a turn, sat on his lap, put her arms round his neck, and planted a big red lipstick kiss on his mouth. She jumped up and the three trooped out. Guy found his handkerchief and began wiping his lips.

  Tom laughed, ‘More conquests … but they’re good girls, really.’

  ‘They don’t look like it,’ Guy said. ‘To tell the truth, they don’t look much like girls at all. And you’re going to have them show off your new dresses?’

  Gavilan nodded, ‘I’ve heard that one or two of the Paris designers are going to use live mannequins, and so are we … It’ll be quite a revolution … Would you like to take one of them to a show or dinner?’

  ‘Thanks,’ Guy said. ‘They frighten the wits out of me. And I’m sort of off ladies, for the moment.’

  ‘Do you think you’re recovered now?’ General Sykes’s tone was curt, and he did not look up from the paper he was scribbling on.

  Guy, standing at attention in front of the big desk in the Air Ministry, said, ‘Yes, sir. As much as I ever shall be.’

  The General looked up sharply – ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I find it hard to care about anything, sir.’

  ‘That’s not the best of recommendations to command a squadron.’

  ‘I know, sir.’

  The General put down his pen and surveyed Guy as though it was the first time he had ever seen him. He said, ‘Too many attacks against odds … too many pilots sent out with twenty, thirty hours, sitting ducks for the Huns … a sort of RFC shell shock, eh?’

  Guy said nothing. The General said, ‘I was going to hold you here until the Germans crumpled, then post you to command one of the squadrons we’ll be sending in with the occupation forces, but …’ He pursed his lips – ‘You were in scouts all the time?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Three Threes.’

  ‘One of Trenchard’s darlings,’ the General muttered. ‘So they got butchered more than the others … Have you ever flown a big machine, a bomber?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Several times.’

  ‘What do you think of their future?’

  ‘They should be the heart of the Royal Air Force, sir. They can attack targets well inside the enemy’s territory … factories, shipbuilding yards, railway junctions, anything that affects the enemy’s ability to wage war.’

  The General’s eyes were gleaming – ‘So you believe in an independent air force, striking on Government directives based on national priorities? Rather than on what the army or the navy ask for?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Though both of them would have to have a say in the priorities.’

  The General said, ‘I thought you were a Trenchard man.

  Guy said, ‘I admire General Trenchard very much, sir.’

  ‘He thinks we ought to be an arm of the army … Ah, you’re too young to be drawn into these personal feuds. We have to, because they aren’t feuds to us, they are vital decisions which will save or lose the country, next time round … Would you like to work on the problems of air force policy … what its role should be, and, depending on that, what sort of aircraft we need for it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I care about that. I suppose because it doesn’t deal with actual live people.’

  ‘Not yet,’ the General said. He stood up – ‘I am sorry I have not seen more of you. As I said, I thought you were a Trenchard man sent to spy on me. He and I do not see eye to eye professionally, and we detest each other personally … Perhaps he will come round to my way of thinking, but I doubt it. He is an obstin
ate man … I will send you to Handley Page, or Hedlington Aircraft. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘Hedlington,’ Guy said at once, ‘that’s where I live.’

  ‘Oh, good. Well, go down and fly their Buffalo. Get to know it well. Drop some bombs with it – fix that with Upavon … work out defensive flying formations for it in daylight attacks … Come back here in about a month – before Christmas, anyway – and start on the big problem … national air policy. Read what’s been written. Lanchester’s important. So am I.’ He smiled warmly – ‘Talk to people other than airmen … politicians … what’s possible, what’s necessary. You remember the first big Gotha raids in June 1917?’

  ‘We heard about them, sir.’

  ‘They were heavy and did a fair amount of damage, but the response that was forced on the Government by public opinion – public demand to be protected, if you like – was out of all proportion to what they cost the Germans. By June this year London was defended by 469 guns, 622 searchlights, 367 aeroplanes, and over 10,000 men. Think what a diversion the Germans would have had to make if we’d put that number of aircraft and manpower into attacking them! Well, as I say, get some practical experience with heavy bombers, then come back here, and think – and write. That’s all.’

  Guy saluted – ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One more thing. I want men who believe in the independent air force to carry weight. You’re promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel, from today.’

  He was in Hedlington, living in the flat with his mother. The letter had come this morning, and his Aunt Alice had sent it to him by messenger. Guy received it and took it at once to his bedroom. Werner was dead, so who could be writing, as from his ‘cousin,’ through the Swiss friend? His hands trembled as he opened it, sitting on the edge of his bed.

  Dear Cousin – As you know I lost the one I loved in an accident. He is gone and it is not proper to bewail that the accident happened. I know that you feel as sad as I do, dear cousin, for I know that you loved him as much as I. Please come to see me as soon as you can. We have much to share. And next May I shall have his baby.

  Your Cousin

  It was Maria von Rackow, Werner’s wife. She was telling him that she knew it must have been an accident – in spite of the announcements in the German press that the German ace had been shot down by the Butcher, Guy Rowland. Please come to see me …as soon as you can. How soon? As soon as the war was over. He’d fly a Buffalo over to Germany, get a car, and go to her.

  ‘Guy! Guy! Your Uncle Richard’s on the telephone, for you.’

  It was his mother. He put the letter away into his breast pocket, went out, and picked up the receiver. ‘Uncle Richard?’

  ‘Guy? When can you come up to the airfield? I’ve had the Air Ministry’s official letter, and General Sykes’s note and we’re delighted, absolutely delighted. While you’re here, studying bombing, we can look into facts and figures concerning the Buffalo’s use in civil aviation.’

  ‘I can be with you in half an hour. I have a motor cycle.’

  ‘Good. We’ll give you lunch here, and I’ll get the Chief Pilot to have a Buffalo ready for afterwards.’

  Guy hung up. His mother, coming out of the flat’s big drawing-room, said, ‘Are you off to the airfield, so soon?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy. I am here on duty, after all.’

  ‘Virginia telephoned while you were asleep. Kate’s three weeks old today and weighs nine pounds four ounces.’

  Guy followed her back into the room. The walls were covered with framed paintings and drawings from the Western Front, all done by Archie Campbell, his father’s adjutant and, he was certain, his mother’s ex-lover. She seemed dejected, drained; in a way rather as he himself felt. He had lost interest in flying scouts in battle; she, in being a wife and mother. It was the war. It was ending at long, long, bloody last, but the prospects before them all did not seem particularly rosy.

  Daily Telegraph, Friday, November 1, 1918

  BRITISH ATTACK AT AUDENARDE

  1,000 PRISONERS TAKEN

  At 9.50 p.m. the following was issued:

  Headquarters (France), Thursday (8.15 p.m.) The British Second Army attacked this morning southwest of Audenarde, capturing all its objectives and about 1,000 prisoners.

  On the rest of the British front there is nothing of special interest to report …

  Cate glanced at the other headlines: AUSTRIAN ARMY IN FULL FLIGHT … IMMEDIATE ARMISTICE … AMERICAN SUCCESS … SURRENDER OF TURKEY … REVOLUTION IN VIENNA AND BUDAPEST … DEMONSTRATIONS IN PRAGUE … IMPERIAL EAGLE TORN DOWN …

  At last, at long, long last! Even the Germans were cracking, though they had not yet broken. One last push perhaps. It could not be more than a matter of days, now.

  The drone of aircraft engines intruded on Cate’s thoughts and he looked up, cocking an ear. They’d been flying those big fourengined bombers a lot out of Hedlington Aircraft since Guy came down. But this sounded louder than usual. He left the newspaper beside his plate and went out of the room and through the front door on to the front lawn. Shading his eyes against the hazy November sun, he saw that five bombers were flying in close arrowhead formation about six thousand feet up, a couple of miles to the south; and three other machines, these much smaller single-engined ones, like miniature darts, were circling round them. Ah, that must be what Guy had told him he was going to do, when he came to dinner a few nights ago – test formations for the bombers under simulated attack by enemy scouts. No one was firing their guns, of course, for Guy had also told him they would use camera guns instead, and the photographs, when they were developed, would show what sort of targets the attackers and defenders had had.

  Very interesting, he thought, returning into the house as the heavy drone of the many engines faded to the north; but, good heavens, were they even now thinking of war, in the councils of the nation, when all everyone longed for was peace?

  He supposed so; and, he grudgingly admitted, they’d better. Defeating Germany was not going to clear the world of war – only plant the seeds somewhere else. All the same, he wished Guy would take his deadly chess game elsewhere; so that one could dwell on the other aspects of man’s new conquest of the air: a couple of hours to Paris, for a new exhibition at the Louvre … half a day to Madrid and Rome … one to Cairo and Athens … in a few years, New York, Montreal, Buenos Aires. The horizon, limited for so many years by the war across the narrow Channel, was widening to enclose the whole world.

  Chapter 15

  The Western Front: November, 1918

  I’ve lost my rifle and bayonet,

  I’ve lost my pull-through too,

  I’ve lost my disc and my puttees,

  I’ve lost my four-by-two,

  I’ve lost my housewife and hold-all,

  I’ve lost my button-stick, too,

  I’ve lost my rations and greatcoat –

  Sergeant, what shall I do?

  They were shining their brass buttons, sitting along the inside wall of the church, in shirt sleeves. Their work belied at least some of the words of the song, for most had button-sticks, all had pull-throughs, and some were using a housewife to mend tears in shirts or holes in socks.

  ‘Can’t believe this whole ruddy church is standing, ’cept for one big ’ole,’ Corporal Leavey said. ‘Didn’t fink there was any church towers or spires left in the whole of France.’

  ‘There was plenty round Mons and Le Cateau, in ’14,’ Private ‘Snaky’ Lucas said. ‘And now we’re nearly back there.’

  Private Brace said, ‘Think there’ll be any more pushes, corp? If there is, it’s my turn to have the flu.’

  ‘There’s plenty caught it, and turned up their toes just the same as if they’d caught a Jerry shell with their name on it. We’re all the age to get it … except Snaky. He was never young, even before he put in twenty years in the Shiny.’

  Young Jessop said, ‘Well, are we going to attack again?’

  ‘’Ow the ’ell should I know? The Kaiser forget to write
me last week. And don’t ask them questions, either.’

  The men along the opposite wall changed their song:

  Lousing, lousing, lousing,

  Always bloody well lousing.

  Lousing all the morning,

  And lousing all the night.

  A young soldier, a nineteen-year-old arrived two weeks ago, his chin smooth as a baby’s behind, gazed up in awe at the huge hole in the wall over his head – ‘What made that, corporal?’ he asked.

  Before Leavey could answer, Lucas, the old soldier, said tersely, ‘Mice … Pass me that button-stick.’

  Marching, marching, marching,

  Always bloody well marching,

  When the war is over

  We’ll bloody well march no more!

  Sergeant Fagioletti strode into the church and bellowed, ‘Shut yer traps! This is a bleeding church, so don’t use no fucking profane language in it!’

  ‘All right, sergeant,’ one of the singers said. ‘We was only keeping our spirits up … If the church is so holy, why are we allowed to bivvy in it? It’s Roman, isn’t it?’

  Fagioletti said, ‘Yes. But Father Caffin spoke to the priest here. The captain spoke to him, actually, and the priest said of course we could use the church, only we ought to fumigate it first, ’cos the Jerries had been using it for four years … Company pay parade in half an hour.’

  A cheer went up and Fagioletti raised a hand – ‘No one’ll get any pay if the captain can’t see his face in his buttons and his boots. The CO says this war’s nearly over and we’ve got to get back to real soldiering.’

  ‘Have the Jerries packed in?’ a voice asked anxiously, to be instantly followed by others – ‘Is it really over? … No more attacks for us!’